


Netflix's Castlevania, but from memory

by orphan_account



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2020-12-20 20:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21062888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sunset seeped across the land like rosy honey, limning the architecturally-unsound castle of Vlad “Dracula” Tepes’ in red-gold and casting thick black stripes of shadow from his countless avant-garde lawn decorations.  Here a bat, there a bat, everywhere a human skeleton kebab’d tastefully on a stake.





	1. s1e1

**Author's Note:**

> You could call it a rewrite, but not in a fixing-it kind of way. You could call it a parody, but I don't know that it's pointed enough to earn it. You could most definitely call it a pointless pet project I'm writing for my own enjoyment. And for now, call it a one-shot--until I find out whether I'm up for the rest of the season. :V
> 
> Sorry if the tags are wack! I'm not really in this fandom, exactly, so I don't have the Deep Castlevania Lore.

Sunset seeped across the land like rosy honey, limning the architecturally-unsound castle of Dracula Vlad Tepes in red-gold and casting thick black stripes of shadow from his countless avant-garde lawn decorations. Here a bat, there a bat, everywhere a human skeleton kebab’d tastefully on a stake. 

And making her way towards the towering fortress of Vlad the Impaler: a lone human woman with angelic, no-nonsense features and a bat impaled on her knife. _ Look at me _ , her attitude seemed to say. _ I too can stab things. Just you try it. _Vlad probably liked her the instant he saw her, but some things take a while to properly kick in, especially through centuries of bitterness and old, violent habits.

Still, he did let her in when she knocked.

Actually, she banged on the door with the hilt of her knife (the bat had fallen off it at some point). _ Rude, _thought Vlad, who was still deciding whether or not he wanted to eat her.

“Hello? _ Hello? _”

Aha--her back was to him. One with the shadows, Vlad arranged his collar just so and prepared to loom out over her. Uttering the fell words, _ “How dare you invite yourself into my home,” _ he poured out of the thick, clinging gloom. It was a good loom, even by his standards, but it barely got a gasp out of her. And then she just glared at him. Vlad tried to think _ rude _ again, but came up with _ hot _instead, which left him so bewildered that he barely heard her reply.

“...just wanted to learn from you!”

“Oh? What?” said Vlad. “What?”

“I’ve heard rumors of your books and sciences!” said the rude hot bat-stabbing angel. “I’m a doctor. I’d like to pick your brain.”

“How do you know I won’t _ pick _yours?” said Vlad, plucking suggestively at the air with two perfectly-pointed nails. He wasn’t sure if he was going for threatening or flirtatious. This was the moment he became quite certain he was in trouble. “Actually, don’t answer that. Follow me.”

She absolutely glowed when she saw the study, crammed with gleaming brass and intricately-blown glass and thick leatherbound tomes.

“The amassed knowledge of centuries,” said Vlad, failing to not show off for a human woman he’d met half a minute ago.

“Incredible! Why haven’t you shared this with the rest of the world?”

Vlad scoffed in a very cool, impressive way. “I don’t much care for the rest of the world. Humans are terrible; thus the impaling.”

“You,” said the doctor, “need to get out more.”

He liked her _ so _ much. It was horrible. “Who the fuck _ are _ you,” said Vlad.

Now she glowed up at him, like a miniature sun that would surely turn him to ash. “Lisa. Lisa from Lupu. And you can impale me anytime, _ Dracula_.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Vlad.

\--

Ironically, she turned to ash first. It wasn’t fair, but then humankind rarely was. You take a prolonged hike across Europe, and they burn your wife at the stake. Typical fucking humans. _ Well, _ thought Vlad, surrendering to the dark machinations of his broken heart, _ here we go again. _

The whelp tried to interfere, of course, but it was nothing that couldn’t be fixed by some tough love. And the tough love was nothing that couldn’t be fixed by a load of bandages and a year-long coma. So, really, parenting was going great.

After months of patient preparation, it was time for a plague of truly Biblical proportions. Blood and deformed monster babies falling from the sky! Hordes of slavering, flesh-eating abominations swarming across the land! Misery! Suffering! Intestines! And in the end, obviously, the extinction of the human race. Because humans...were terrible.

\--

**An Unspecified Amount of Time Later**

In a secluded building, more outhouse than tavern, mainly occupied by men whose highest-rated comedy revolved around jokes about fucking sheep. Outside, an icy wind ran its chilly fingers over the uncomfortable, naked trees of a winter forest.

“I reckon it’s all the Belmonts’ fault,” said Short And Lumpy. Tall And Knobbly, whose fifth beer had severely limited his already scant vocabulary, nodded in passionate agreement. Belmonts, yes.

In the corner, another man tried valiantly to mind his own business. A much more conventionally attractive man, with shaggy, difficult-to-draw hair and a voluminous fur cloak heaped over his shoulder. Perhaps it was the pelt of some massive, mystical creature, defeated in honorable combat...or perhaps he’d skinned five albino badgers. It could go either way.

“Old family like that, all mixed up in magic ‘n...monsters...prolly did it. Stands to reason. Belmonts.”

“Belmonts, aye.”

The mysterious man in the corner twitched involuntarily...almost as though the conversation were relevant to him in some way.


	2. s1e2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> filthy wanderin' types

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode 2 is pretty hazy in my mind, but if I missed a beat in here I'm sure I can add it in for episode 3. I absolutely refuse to rewatch and check, not least because I saw a gifset earlier with actual dialogue from the show, and it's MUCH funnier than anything I've written here. Damn you, Warren Ellis!!

Trevor Belmont had seen better days, which was to say, days when he’d been drunker than he was now. Certainly he’d been _ happier _in his halcyon, carefree youth, but those memories had been somewhat ruined by the Belmont Family Massacre, and now Drunker Times had taken first place by a wide margin.

All this to say, if he heard the name Belmont one more time, he was going to--

“...Stands to reason. Belmonts.”

“Belmonts, aye.”

\--get a refill and leave. Maybe have a dreamless sleep for once. It was bad enough to lie down under a random tree and pray you wouldn’t wake up with frostbite.

He made his way valiantly across the swaying floor to the bar, which was sticky and therefore easy to cling to. Short And Lumpy gave him a look.

“Beer,” said Trevor, skillfully managing to force the word out at the same time as a belch.

“Money,” said the barkeep--a devastating counter Trevor had not planned for. Playing for time, he went through the motions of checking his clothes for coin. _ Pat pat. Pat pat. Oh dear, none in my tunic, what a shame, time to check the pants-- _

“Hey,” said Short and Lumpy, “what’s that?”

Trevor tried to focus on one of the two fingers pointing at him. “Mm? Whuh?”

“On yer shirt.”

Trevor looked down. Intricate golden embroidery glared accusingly back up at him.

“Took it offa deadman. Lookin’ f’r a beer,” Trevor slurred. No beer was forthcoming. _ This is all your fault, embroidery. _

“That there’s the _ Belmont _ crest. You’re a _ Belmont _.”

“Beer,” Trevor repeated unhappily.

He dodged the first punch. The second one hit him right in the teeth. _ I should say something _ , thought Trevor, spitting blood and trying not to vomit. _ Defend the family name. Monster killers. Good guys. Not responsible for world ending, etc. _

Then Tall and Knobbly hit him with a chair.

Trevor Belmont had seen better days, which was to say, days when two inbred farmers wouldn’t have kicked his ass in a bar fight.

\--

He woke up with a throbbing headache, his mouth tasting of bile and copper, but nothing was frostbitten. And he couldn’t even remember a single nightmare, so. Win.

And now, on to Gresit. 

Gresit looked exactly the way it sounded: like a great shit. Perhaps Trevor’s perception had been colored by entering it via the sewers (and it certainly had been a _ colorful _experience), but the intestines strung along its walltops certainly didn’t help.

He bought some meat off an old lady, who thankfully didn’t mention the sewer smell. She had a lot to say about the state of Gresit, which was just as well because each bite of dried beef took about an age to chew. Still, the story was old hat by now. Night creatures on the prowl, barely scraping by, church in place of local government, blah blah blah…

“...I blame _ them _, mind you,” said the old woman, pointing her chin at someone behind Trevor. “Those filthy wanderin’ types, supernatural in nature, I shouldn’t doubt--bringin’ all this misfortune down on us.”

Already feeling a certain kinship with the filthy wandering types in question, Trevor turned to catch sight of a blue cloak vanishing into an alley. And the armed church officials following it.

_ Don’t do it, _said the part of him that always said not to do it. But it was too late. He put the last of the meat in his least-filthy pocket and followed them.

The man in the blue cloak was old and infuriatingly pacifistic. Trevor would’ve liked to see him punch one of the thuggish erstwhile altarboys in the face, just once. But he didn’t, and as usual it was down to Trevor to do the protecting. Typical.

“Hey, fuckos!” he shouted. This was usually enough to make any bully look away from their victim, because all bullies knew at heart that they were fuckos.

He hadn’t brought out the whip in a while, but it did have the tactical advantage of being blindingly unexpected. No one knew what to do about a man with a whip. He could see it on their faces as he snagged one and smashed him into the other man--_ A whip? Who uses a _ whip _ ? Isn’t that just wildly impractical OH GOD OH GOD OH G-- _

Not that Trevor cared to admit it, but after last night’s farmerly ass-kicking, it felt good to competently break a nose or two. Even if it required him to be agonizingly sober. He ought to say something, probably, once it was done--_ ”How d’you like having your _ face _ altared?” _ No, you’d have to see that one written out. _ “Jesus didn’t die for you to be assholes!” _ Lacked a certain something. _ “Are you the 95 theses, ‘cause I’d like to nail _ you _ to a wall.” _That was a pick-up line--also, were they even Protestant? Had that happened yet? What year was it?

Trevor realized he was looking down at two burbling, unconscious men and he still hadn’t said a word.

“You...saved me,” said the old man, awed and appreciative. “How can I ever--”

“Well, I’d say they’ve been _ thuribly _ defeated,” said Trevor. _ Nailed it. _

The old man gave him a look that Trevor assumed was one of stoic admiration. “...Right. Well. Are you hungry? Thirsty? My caravan has little, but you are welcome to stay with us for the night.”

“I’ve got food,” said Trevor, patting his least-filthy pocket.

“Drink, then?”

_ Drink. _ Trevor _ was _tired of being sober. It had been a whole twelve hours. “Alright,” he said, stowing the whip back on his belt. “Lead the way, then. But this better not get me into any more shit.”

“I promise,” said the old man, “no more shit.”


	3. s1e3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shake until it's dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, making up lore and cyclops names: can't look things up, them's the rules, how sad.

“You said no more shit.”

The old man gave him a look of innocent incomprehension, which Trevor was not buying for one second. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well--for one thing, you didn’t tell me you were Speakers--”

“You take issue with Speakers?”

“What? No, I just-- Preservers of history. Decent people. Great, uh, oral tradition…”

“Then what ‘shit’ are you referring to?”

“You _ also _didn’t tell me there was no beer.”

“Ah.” The old man considered this. “I was under the impression...that you would be satisfied with water.”

“Yeah, well, more fool you.” Trevor glared around the gloomy hovel. Some Speakers glared back, but most of them just seemed...worn down. Trevor knew the feeling all too well; the grindstone of the world never stopped turning, for some people. You toughened up so you didn’t end up as powder on the floor.

“And one other thing,” he said gruffly. “I can’t believe you’re making me rescue your grandkid.”

“But I never--”

“I’m _ not _a hero,” said Trevor, stomping towards the door. “It’s really not fair to shove me off into dangerous, mysterious underground ruins for someone I’ve never met.”

“This is really very good of you,” said the old man, irritatingly. “Whatever you should want--food, perhaps? I know you don’t want water--”

“I have a pocket full of _ meat _ ,” Trevor snapped over his shoulder. Someone in the shadows muttered something. Someone else snickered. “I am _ not _ talking about my penis. Listen, just--when I get back, leave the damn city, alright? They _ do _not like you here.”

“Yes, of course. You have my word, Trevor Belmont.”

Trevor did not at all like the portentous way the old man said his name, but he was already knee-deep in a hunt. And if there was anything about him that was still Belmont, it was the obligation of The Hunt. As dear old dead Mom used to say, “_ You sink your teeth in and you shake until it’s dead _ . _ ” _

\--

The irony was stupefying, Trevor thought, as the cyclops holding his cloak flailed him back and forth like a ragdoll.

It was astonishing that some part of him still felt entitled to the Belmont name; an underground hall full of broken but shockingly lifelike “statues”, and at no point had the words “Stone-Eye Cyclops” crossed his mind. Until the beast itself had appeared, and frankly by that point it didn’t count.

It threw Trevor into a pillar, producing a chiropractic patter of pops from his spine and a gunshot CRACK from the back of his skull. No time to rest, though, the thing’s eye was starting to glow again. Sweating beer and dripping blood, he took an ungainly hop-skip and dove into a roll. The petrification ray missed his head by a split hair, instead splashing against his cloak.

“I _ sleep _ under that!” Trevor slurred, feeling somewhat concussed. “Fuck--fuck you!”

He’d lost his sword earlier, but he could see it now, stuck in some rubble out of arm’s reach. But not--haha--out of _ whip’s _reach. Trevor didn’t have time to aim, so he just lashed out and hoped.

The feeling of the whip snapping around the sword hilt was almost alcoholic, for the sheer relief and satisfaction it brought. Trevor pulled it taut, felt the blade grate free from the stones, and swung it with all his might at the thing’s ugly face. And _ smack _, hilt-deep, right in that cursed eyeball.

Okay, maybe he still had it.

The one unbroken “statue” began to de-petrify within seconds. Trevor watched as the frozen stone folds of its cloak melted into that familiar soft blue fabric. Great. Even if it wasn’t the old man’s grandson, he was still getting _ someone _back, right? Right.

Time to get out of here.

“Hey,” said Trevor, stomping over. “Speaker. I’m Trevor Belmont, I’m here to--”

The speaker turned around, hood falling to reveal a young woman with blazing blue eyes and outrageously ginger hair.

“What?”

“...Wish your lot wouldn’t dress the boys and girls the same,” said Trevor. She gave him a Look, and he instantly decided he disliked her.

\--

Sypha must have spent as much time on the grindstone as the rest of her troupe, but there was something disgustingly _ open _ about her. Something...shiny. What was it about happy people that made him wish _ their _ whole family would be executed for witchcraft just so they could understand how the fucking world worked? Okay, he didn’t wish that. After all, her family _ was _ inches from being executed for witchcraft at the best of times. He just...wanted her to _ act _ like it.

“I beg your pardon,” said the bishop, not sounding like he begged anything, “but are you _ listening _?”

Trevor cleared his throat. “Yes, yeah. Yes. You…wanna become King Bishop by process of elimination? And you think killing the Speakers will stop the night creatures from doing all the nighttime murdering?”

The bishop managed to sneer with his entire body. “Something like that.”

“Well,” said Trevor, “you’re the guy who burned Dracula’s wife to a crisp, so I’m sure your judgment is fucking impeccable. On an unrelated note, I have to go.”


End file.
